For several weeks
I worked in a small bookstore 
on the corner of West 10th and Bleecker
in Greenwich Village.
One night a customer 
approached the cash register 
with a big stack of books
and asked if he could pay for them 
with a personal check.
“Sure. But I have to see some ID.
It’s the store policy,” I told him.
“Isn’t this enough?” he asked, 
leaning forward and framing 
his face with his hands.
I knew it was William Kunstler,
the famous radical lawyer, 
but I wasn’t impressed
by his macho display,
so I said, “No. 
Please show me your identification.”
Deflated, he took out his wallet.